Jayne Krentz - Desire

"Mayhap you are feeling some of the same things that I am feeling tonight." Gareth took a sip of his own wine.

Then he removed Clare's goblet from her fingers. He set both small vessels down on the table.

"My lord?" Clare realized that her voice had risen to a small squeak.

"Are you feeling unsettled, also?"

"Aye."

"Mayhap we both could use a draught of camomile and mint tea," she suggested helpfully. "Tis excellent for an uneasy stomach. I shall summon one of the servants."

"Nay, I know of a far better cure."

Gareth pulled her gently but relentlessly into his arms. When she stood shivering against him, still clutching the chamber robe as if it were a talisman, he claimed her mouth with his own.

Gareth felt Clare's undisguised shiver of surprise; a flash of confusion washed through her, causing her to tremble in his arms. He kept his mouth pressed against hers, willing her to respond the way she had the last time he kissed her.

He knew she wanted him. He had sensed the passion in her that first afternoon. All he had to do was get past the logical defenses she had erected.

Relief soared in him when he heard her tiny, half-strangled gasp of excitement.

She would be a true wife to him. The bastard of Wyckmere had got himself a bride.

And a future.

Her mouth was hesitant at first and then her lips softened deliciously beneath his own. Gareth knew for certain that he had guessed correctly.

He had not misread the feminine curiosity in her eyes, nor had he misjudged the significance of her trembling fingers.

The good fortune that had kept him alive during his years as a hunter of outlaws had followed him into his new life as a farmer of flowers. He had gained far more from this match than he had dared to hope.

Clare made a small sound of anticipation. Her fingers clutched at his shoulders. Gareth groaned. He had been enduring the torments of a half-aroused body all day. Now he was fully erect, eager for what awaited him. The time had come to claim his wife.

Gareth felt Clare shudder and press herself against him. An urge to laugh nearly overwhelmed him. He fought it back. This was not the time to succumb to mirth. Still, he reveled in the moment. It was obvious that all Clare's foolish talk of waiting until their acquaintanceship had deepened into friendship was simply that: foolish.

Clare was as eager to taste the pleasure of the marriage bed as he was.

Gareth was relieved and exultant. Now another battle lay ahead of him.

But he was accustomed to fighting for what he wanted. And he most definitely wanted Clare.

He recognized that Clare's disgust for Nicholas of Seabern was genuine.

He still was not certain what to believe about her past experience of lovemaking. But Clare's sweetly eager mouth told him that whatever had happened between her and Nicholas, it had not given her a distaste for the business.

Mayhap it was Raymond de Coleville who had taught her how much mutual pleasure a man and a woman could find together.

Whichever man had been responsible, Gareth was not particularly grateful to him.

"My lord." Clare's voice was a breathless sigh against Gareth's lips.

She was warm and soft against his chest. Her arms wound slowly around his neck. "No doubt we should not kiss in this manner yet, but I vow, I cannot seem to stop."

Her confession sent Gareth's blood pounding through his veins. The heavy beat was a distant echo of his war-horse's hoofbeats. His whole body reacted violently to the promise of Clare's gentle surrender.

The lady was ready and willing, not an anxious, innocent maid who had to be led slowly into bed.

"Be assured that I have no intention of halting these kisses yet."

Gareth stroked the edge of her mouth with the pads of his thumbs. Her lips trembled and parted. Her cheeks, flushed and glowing, were warm to the touch. Her eyes were fathomless emeralds that held the secrets of a woman's passion waiting to be unleashed.

If it wasn't Nicholas who had taught Clare the arts of love, Gareth thought, then it had most likely been Raymond de Coleville, her much-vaunted pattern of chivalry. Damn his soul.

Which one had it been? he wondered.

Or had she taken two lovers?

In that moment Gareth could cheerfully have given each of his unknown rivals a view of the Window of Hell.

Having made the acquaintance of Nicholas, Gareth concluded that it was the mysterious Raymond de Coleville who worried him the most.

Yet another challenge for the Hellhound of Wyckmere to conquer, he told himself. He had never been one to back down from a challenge.

He deepened the kiss, knowing that he had no right to resent the fact that Clare had lain in the arms of another man. He was no virgin, either, Gareth thought. And he was a bastard into the bargain: no great prize for any lady of her station.

Clare was a healthy young woman of three and twenty years who had been on her own and burdened with the responsibilities of managing the manor for much of her life.

She was also a very curious and obviously intelligent woman who had never planned to wed. Such a woman would not have been averse to tasting the forbidden fruit when the opportunity presented itself in the guise of a handsome young knight.

Gareth knew he was swiftly driving himself mad. It struck him that he had never before known the knife-sharp pangs of raw jealousy.

Jealousy?

The realization brought him back to his senses.

He tore his mouth from Clare's and framed her face between his hands.

Her eyes were luminous and full of wonder as she looked up at him.

"What's done is done," Gareth muttered.

"I do not understand, my lord."

"It matters not. From this night forward, you are mine. You are my lady wife, the future mother of my children. I vow, I will make you forget Nicholas and Raymond de Coleville and any other man who has come before me."

Her brows drew together in a quizzical expression. "But why would I wish to forget Nicholas and Raymond? One is a neighbor and the other was a friend."

"Enough. Do not speak of either of them again tonight." Gareth ensured her silence with another kiss.

She mumbled something unintelligible which sounded very much like a protest, or at the very least an attempt to start a spirited argument.

Gareth did not want to listen. He eased her lips apart and sank his tongue into her mouth.

Clare made another odd, somewhat strangled sound. Then she tightened her arms around his neck and touched her tongue to his.

Gareth sucked in a savage breath, swept her up into his arms, and tumbled her onto the bed. The hunger to be inside her nearly consumed him. He lowered himself heavily down onto the white linen sheets and reached for Clare.

"My lord."

"Hush." He flung one leg over her thighs. Conscious of his great weight and her much smaller size, he braced himself on his arms as he leaned over her. "We will discuss the matter later. Right now I only want to kiss you."

"Oh." The frowning uncertainty vanished from her eyes. She touched his cheek with her fingertip.

"Well, I suppose there is no great harm in mere kissing, is there?"

"None. And even if there were, I doubt the knowing would stop me tonight."

He gazed, enthralled, at the sight of her dark hair flowing across the herb-laced pillows. Slowly he fisted one hand in it and looped the silken skein around his fingers. He brought the stuff to his nose and inhaled deeply. "You smell of flowers, just like everything else on the isle."

"I expect that you'll grow accustomed to it, my lord."

"Aye." He bent his head to nibble at the elegant line of her throat. "I expect I will."

He eased aside the edge of her chamber robe and listened with deep pleasure to her quickly indrawn breath.

He moved his mouth downward to the swell of her breast, which was partially revealed by her white linen night robe.

"My lord?"

"My name is Gareth." She was so amazingly soft. Her skin was finer than the costly silks he had given her as a wedding gift.

"Gareth." She sounded breathless. "You said you only wished to kiss me."

"Aye. Everywhere." The pure, perfect curve of her small breast was the most alluring sight Gareth had ever seen in his life. He ached to see the nipple that was still concealed beneath the daintily embroidered neckline of her gown. The outline of the small, ripe bud was plain. He stroked one finger across it, delighting in its shape.

"Gareth." Clare froze at the caress. She stared up at him, wide-eyed.

Her hands gripped his shoulders as if she would push him away. "Sir, I do not think this is a sound notion. You said there was no harm in kisses and I agreed. But this is too much."

"You want kisses, my lady?" He deftly unfastened the laces at the front of the robe. "Kisses you shall have. A hundred of them. A thousand."

"Gareth." She batted ineffectually at his big hands. "I do not think?"

"Aye, madam. Do not try to think. Not tonight. The devil knows well that I certainly cannot."

Her rosy nipples looked even more enticing than he had imagined, and his imagination was very powerful. The crowns that graced Clare's breasts were puckered and firm and full of promise. Gareth put his mouth to one and sucked it gently between his teeth.

Clare's reaction was a small shriek. Her fingers dug into his shoulders.

"By Saint Hermion's elbow, my lord. You call this kissing?"